Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (25 page)

            It could have
been any time of day.  Harold wondered if there were a chance of someone
noticing he’d gone missing.  Unlikely.  He’d told Zork he was clearing out.  He
did have a meeting with Mephisto and his people.  Maybe they’d notice something
was wrong and pick up the scent trail.  Right, what a laugh, him hoping to be
rescued by Mephisto and his witch, Orlen.  Harold groaned.

            Rufus stirred
slightly, stretching arms, legs, neck and back in one great, cracking yawn.  He
shook, ruffling fur and torn clothing.  The wolf’s feet had burst through his
wingtips in a rapid growth spurt and the toes arched up in a wave.  Suddenly
remembering his quandary, the wolf jumped into pouncing position, growling and
swiping at the air. 

            “Wolfie,” Harold
said drawing the werewolf’s attention, “No need for the show, Donald’s long
gone.” 

            For a werewolf
transformed, Rufus seemed to understand Harold, because he sat back on his
haunches.  Rufus didn’t appear all bothered by Harold’s presence.  He looked
too fucked up to really be much of a threat.  Both regarded each other, then
the wolf began licking his bloodied hands, err, paws, or whatever they called
them these days. 

            After a few
failed attempts at starting a conversation with the self-cleaning wolf, Harold
gave up.  The creature probably didn’t have the vocal cords for it at the
moment. 

            Right about now,
if Harold’s sense of time were on the mark, it should be getting on towards
mid-afternoon of the next day, but he wasn’t certain.  Time slipped away from
him twice while he slept.  No windows in this lab.  A mixed blessing since
Harold was pretty sure Donald would leave the blinds open just to torture him. 
Yet, he couldn’t exactly see outside.  No clocks on the walls and Harold didn’t
really have a need for a wristwatch.  Didn’t appear that Rufus managed to keep
hold of his wrist watch while answering the call of nature either. 

            Harold checked
the arrow in his coat sleeve.  It might come in useful later, against Donald or
the werewolf should Harold start looking like a good meal instead of a
cellmate.  Cradling newly wounded hands against his chest, Harold did the only
thing he could, he dozed off.

            While it seemed
impossible to get to sleep again in such a miserable state, Harold slipped down
into the nether realm of dreams, his subconscious mind only slightly aware of
the snuffling movements of the werewolf and the bright, florescent lights. 

            This time he
dreamt of the soothing orbed casino lights and tinny cha-ching of slots. 
Orlen’s silhouetted body danced towards him swaying in rhythm to the background
noises.  Those lovely orbs darkened to bright red and broke apart, scattering
around Orlen with dizzying orbits.  Familiar annoying ants pinched at his
irritated skin and Harold remained locked in place on the floor, curled into
his fetal position.  Oh he’d love to rip her apart… but that would make him
such a naughty boy, TUT, Tut, Harold.  Orlen leaned forward over him, exposing
throat and all for him while she stared through pitch black eyes.  Harold, you
naughty boy, where were you, where are you Harold?  We had a deal Harold.  Her
fiery red lights rushed at him, buzzing around his flesh. 

            Come and get me
you bitch.  But oh, so naughty, and she tutted him more.  Where are you
Harold?  Naughty boy, where are you?  She came closer.  Her perfectly made up
face was a dry, cracked landscape of peeling, edges and between those edges
flowed rivers of darkness, round black beetles with red-dotted eyes.

            Harold, Harold,
she whispered without opening her mouth... Shut it, he snarled.  You want me. 
Come to Phenochem.  She smiled and the dry landscape of her face crumbled away,
spilling loose the darkness and millions of tiny beetles ran over Harold’s body
covering him, eating him away with their tiny mandibles. 

            He came too with
a scream, writhing and twisting to get the insects off and then he remembered
and looked around the yellow-white light of the laboratory cell.  Rufus was
back to himself, or a semblance of it and sitting propped into a corner. 

            “Oiy, whatcha
doing?”  He barked good-naturedly.  While Harold slept, Rufus transformed. 
He’d torn strips of fabric from his already ripped pants and wrapped them
around his hands.  Shaggy, dirty and bleeding from his rough worn palms, the
wolf man seemed surprisingly calm about his current predicament. 

            Still swiping his
hands across his chest for imaginary beetles, Harold nodded absently.  He
realized that his chains were gone.  He glanced out into the laboratory and saw
it as empty as before.  Donald must have removed them while he slept and headed
back out again.  His hands and arms were peeling skin, but healing and the
flesh didn’t sting anymore.  His back was still pretty stiff though and his
hunger had settled into the dull ache of his stomach while he dozed.   Harold
slid down the wall to plop on the floor.             

            “Hey,” Rufus
barked again, “you got anything to eat?  I think I smell bacon.”

            Harold looked at
the wolf man.  He might have to use the silver-tipped arrow sooner than he
thought. 

            “I don’t have any
food.”

            “Oh,” the wolf
man sniffed the air disappointedly, “Maybe Donald will bring something to eat
when he comes back.  I’m famished.”  He finished by licking his lips eagerly. 

            “I’m not going to
eat anything that bastard brings.”

            “Why not?”  Rufus
asked.

            “Poison, drugs,
experimental treatments, spit,” Harold said, “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

            Rufus tilted his
head at Harold, looking almost comical in his befuddlement, if it weren’t for
the topic of conversation. 

            “Donald wants to
make us better.”

            “You still think
that,” Harold laughed, “We’re locked up in a cell.  Donald hunted you down and,
and… that’s not even the half of it.”  He sighed.  It was getting difficult to
form coherent thoughts with his body running out of energy and his mouth
running out of spit.  He crawled over to the small sink beside an equally small
toilet and drank from the faucet for a long time.  He could at least pretend
his shrunken stomach was filled with blood.  He did feel better with a full
gullet. 

            Harold drained
his bladder while he had the chance.  There wasn’t exactly a lot of privacy
around here and it felt weird with the wolf in the room, but he’d had to pee
for hours or days…         Business taken care of, Harold headed to the cell
door.  He could feel the wolf man watching him and he ignored the creature. 
Next time Donald would come after Harold and he personally did not want to
experience whatever the man had in store. 

            Donald’s nifty
full spectrum lighting saved him last time, but if Harold could somehow break
the bulbs or get into the ceiling maybe he could rush Donald when he came into
the cell.  Harold looked up with hands on his hips, the ceiling was at least
ten foot high and Harold had yet to figure out flight.     

            “Hey Wolfie,”
Harold called, "Get your hairy butt over here.”  The wolf looked up from
the nails he busily cleaned with his teeth.  Or was he cleaning out his teeth
with those extra-long nails? 

            “What?”

            Harold gestured
to the ceiling.  “I need a boost.”  He sighed, “If you don’t mind.”

            The wolf
scrambled up, but approached warily, glancing between Harold and the ceiling. 
He shook his head, “You shouldn’t be messing around in here.”

            “Oh come on man,”
Harold said, “Do you know what Donald has in mind for me?”  He stalked over to
the window and pointed at the gleaming metal chamber across the lab.  “That’s
for me if I don’t get out of here.”

            The wolf man
still looked unconvinced.  Of all the stupid wolf traits, this one was loyal
even in the face of death. 

            “If Donald
decides he can’t fix you, you’ll end up there too,” Harold said, “Do you want
to die?”

            “Of course not,”
the wolf man said.  He looked indignant now.  “I have a problem, but I’m not
suicidal.”

            Smartest thing
you’ve said today, Harold thought.  Although the wolf’s choices in friends
didn’t exactly support this guy’s statement.  Harold gestured for a boost up
and this time Rufus complied, hoisting Harold up with a hand sling.  Whew boy. 
The wolfman’s hygiene left something to be lacking up close.  Harold let him
know too, but Rufus only said he hadn’t a chance to get to a shower in the past
week or so. 

            Several rows of
bulbs lit the room, the standard fluorescent were on and those not on were the
full spectrum lights.  The bulbs alternated between fluorescent and full
spectrum.  This double-lighting system ran above the entire cell.  Harold could
only assume the control panel outside allowed Donald to choose which of the
lights were on at any point in time and in any part of the holding cell. 
Harold touched one of the recessed light bulbs.  A plastic disc held in place
by a heavy metal ring covered each socket.  Harold tried prying the ring loose,
but no go.  The plastic covering didn’t look too strong. 

            He braced himself
with one hand on the ceiling and yelled at Rufus to stop moving around, then
pressed his thumb upwards against the plastic.  It gave a little.  He pressed
harder until it snapped inwards.  He pulled out the shards, letting them fall
to the floor.

            “Watch it,” Rufus
muttered, “What do you think you’re doing?”

            Harold reached
into tap the bulb with his fingers.  It didn’t turn on, nothing burned him, nor
did it burn to touch the thing.  Guess Donald didn’t think any of his guests
would try to disable the lighting system. 

            “Donald uses full
spectrum lighting to keep us from rushing the door.” Harold muttered as he
gently unscrewed the bulb.  “I’m fixing it so they won’t turn on next time he
drops by.”

            “Success,” Harold
said, pulling the bulb from its home.  He jumped down from Rufus’ grasp and
presented the light bulb.  Rufus frowned at it. 

            “You’re just
trying to get out of here right?”  The wolf man asked.  “I’m not going to help 
you hurt him.”  Emotions played across his face, he looked both concerned with
widened brow and angry with up curled lips. 

            Harold wanted to
point out Donald was trying to hurt Rufus and would continue to do so, even if
he chose not to hurt back, but he still needed the wolf man’s help.

            “I just want to
get out of here,” Harold said, “We’ll rush the door, push Donald in here and
lock him in.”  Harold laid the light bulb in the corner behind the door where
it wouldn’t be seen by Donald.

            “After I leave
you can do whatever you like,” Harold said, “kill him, eat him, head out on
your own, let Donald go, whatever, but let me get a good head start.”

            The wolf man
regarded him with serious brown eyes. 

            “Alright sure.” 
The wolf held out a grimy, bandaged hand for Harold to shake. 

He felt inclined to refuse
the dirty paw, but this was a long way from their first meeting in the
warehouse.  If Harold kept up the camaraderie, the wolf just might opt for self-preservation
next time he met up with Donald.  Perhaps there was hope for Rufus yet.

            They looked up at
the remaining lights.  “How many of these are we going to unscrew?” Rufus
asked.

            Harold laughed. 
They’d need to repeat the procedure another dozen or so times, just to be
certain the lights wouldn’t block their path of attack.  Although, they did
have the time on hand. 

            The two of them
moved slowly through the rest of the task.  Both were injured and tired, and
all this up and down stuff exacerbated Harold’s lightheadedness, not to mention
Rufus’ hands.  Halfway through his hands started bleeding again and Harold was
hungry enough to consider it and Rufus certainly grumbled enough to make him
want to do it. 

            They collected
fourteen bulbs in the end, each placed carefully against the wall by the door
where they wouldn’t be seen by Donald when he came in.  Harold and Rufus pushed
the broken shards of plastic into the corner, cleaning up as well as they
could.  It looked at first sight, like everything was in place.  Unless Donald
stood at the far end of the glass window or glanced up at the ceiling, he
wouldn’t get a glimpse of the mess.

            Task completed,
each retired to their personal corners of the cell to wait Donald’s next move. 
It was a slow couple of hours.  Harold mulled over his recent behavior and
relationship with Maria.  Did he really keep her out as she had said?  They
hadn’t spoken much in the past few months.  Harold felt like he’d been pulled
every which way but up in the past couple of months.  Nearly one hundred years
of successfully living a quiet, although bloody, life as a vampire and suddenly
everyone wants a piece of him.  Been on the job a few years.  Been in the same
city for his whole life and he knew or thought he knew all of its streets and
secrets.  He’d barely lived past the normal human lifespan and was already
bored to death.  All that familiarity got to a guy after a while, made him a
little careless, especially when he didn’t have any new challenges.